


What the Thunder Said

by Fontainebleau



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 11:14:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11160726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fontainebleau/pseuds/Fontainebleau
Summary: Prompt fill: post-rose creek Faraday is afraid of thunder because it reminds him of the explosion. Goody helps.





	What the Thunder Said

**Author's Note:**

> For an anonymous prompt on Tumblr: post-rose creek Faraday is afraid of thunder because it reminds him of the explosion. Goody helps?
> 
> The title was never going to be anything else.

A sparking flash of lightning lit up the dull saloon and a minute later came a low rumble of thunder. ‘Well, that’s about time,’ said Goodnight with heartfelt relief. 

The sky had been low and threatening all day, the heat oppressive, leaving everyone snappish and discontented; Goodnight himself had been thick-headed and irritable, unable to concentrate on his work, and though Billy hadn’t said anything – Billy never said anything – his temper had plainly begun to wear thin at Goodnight’s restless pacing and cursing himself for a dunderhead. They’d come to town for lack of will to do anything more constructive, and tethered their horses next to two others they recognised outside the Imperial: when they stepped inside Faraday and Vasquez had seemed as glad as they at the prospect of an idle afternoon of cards and company. ‘A good storm to clear the air, that’s what we all need.’

Billy laid down his hand and went to look out of the door. Across the valley a wall of black cloud was boiling up, white-hot points of lightning flickering on the horizon. A sharp breeze stirred the heavy air, bringing with it the scent of rain and an electric tang that caught in the back of his throat, quickening his pulse in anticipation. He walked back to the table where the others sat, fingers already at the buttons of his vest. ‘Coming in fast, and the rain will be fierce.’ 

Vasquez raised an eyebrow as he stripped the vest off and hung it on the back of his chair beside his hat. 'Planning to let me take the shirt off your back?’ grinned Faraday. 

‘Have fun, _cher_.’ Goodnight twinkled at his partner: he knew how much Billy loved storms. Billy flashed him a smile as brief and bright as the lightning and strode out, quick and light, past a handful of new customers coming in.

Faraday hadn’t even looked up at the first fizz of lightning, attention on the cards in his hand – a straight that had whispered the promise that it might fill out, though a nine and a deuce had made that a lie; still, he could yet bluff and win. Sitting here in the saloon, fanning his cards and bragging, pot sitting temptingly in front of him, he could almost believe that nothing had changed, that he was still the gambler living on his wits and his luck, hands quick with the cards and quick with the gun. He knew Vasquez fretted to see him whiling his days away with drink and whatever company he could find, but what else was there for him to do, injuries still raw, too clumsy for useful work, no other skills to use. Better a poor imitation of the life he used to have than no life at all. But the low roll of the thunder seemed to tighten something in his gut, setting his missing fingers twitching; it was hard to concentrate, Goody burbling on about ‘clearing the air.’

Vasquez pushed his chair back and heaved to his feet. ‘The horses. They’ll spook in the storm, and when the rain comes ... I’ll take them to the livery, get them under shelter.’ 

‘Appreciate it,’ said Goodnight. 

‘Need a hand?’ Faraday’s offer was too lazy to be convincing even to him, and Vasquez cuffed him on the shoulder. ‘Stay and play, _guero_ , no need for us both to get wet.’ 

Outside shopkeepers were hastily gathering their goods laid out on the sidewalk back under cover, the teacher shooing children back into the schoolhouse, and he gathered the reins from the hitching-post as the first heavy drops began to fall slowly around him, evaporating off the baked ground before they had a chance to spread. At another angry mutter and growl the horses stamped nervously, but he spoke low and reassuring to them, calming them enough for him to lead his little remuda down the street to the livery.

\--

Billy and Vasquez might have upped and gone, but Josh Faraday wasn’t the man to stir himself for a thunderstorm. He picked up the deck to shuffle. ‘Two-hander?’ he asked, and Goody nodded agreement, draining his glass and refilling both. Another pin-bright flicker stilled the room for a second, and the restless wait for the rumble that followed set his muscles tensing, his skin suddenly hot and tight. The thunder burst, just a little sooner and a little closer; the room seemed to waver and jump before his eyes and his stomach lurched, sending him momentarily dizzy, grasping for the arm of the chair. 

Goody was looking at him in concern, and Faraday shook his head to clear it. ‘Might be you’re right – weather’s making us all thick-headed.’ He looked around the room, the light fading to half-dark as the black clouds gathered outside: none of the customers propping up the bar or sitting to drink, girls leaning over to flirt with them, seemed to be paying any mind to the rising storm. 

Goodnight was surprised to see Faraday so jumpy, flinching at the lightning flashes, hands curling on the arms of his chair at each clap of thunder, the sound swelling gradually louder as the storm rolled in over the valley. But some men hated thunder and lightning, Goodnight knew, though few would admit such weakness. Still, oftentimes you’d see a man seeking company, talking and laughing too loud, calling for a song or a tune to distract him, riding it out with teeth gritted and knuckles white. Perhaps Faraday had always had an aversion; how much did they know about each other, after all? 

Among his many weaknesses, storms weren’t one; in recent times he’d come to enjoy them for Billy’s sake, but still, Goodnight wouldn’t shame a man for a fear he couldn’t help. ‘No need to be fearful – if lightning strikes it’ll be the church – or some tall tree out on the plain. No danger of getting struck sitting in a saloon, though that’s not what the temperance preachers will tell you.’ A fond expression that he wasn’t fully aware of crossed his face. ‘That partner of mine will be out dancing in it like an electrical demon. He loves storms.’

‘Ain’t dumb enough to be afraid of a thunderstorm,’ said Faraday tersely, but he shifted in his chair, facing down the room with a challenging scowl. He could feel the sweat running down his back. _Get a grip_ , he told himself. _You’re a man, act like one_. Outside the rain began to fall more heavily, hissing down on the thirsty ground, and one or two stragglers came clattering in through the door, shaking themselves dry and grinning at their narrow escape. He dealt the cards, picked up his hand, and when the next flash came he was sure he was prepared for it, but he started like a spooked rabbit. 

_The flash. The wait. And the roar_. He’s on his knees in the hot grass and the world’s about to end. It bursts over him and his chair scrapes on the boards as he curls in on himself reflexively. 

‘Joshua?’ Goody is leaning closer. ‘You alright, son?’

\--

When the liveryman saw Vasquez leading the horses across his lot in the scattering rain he folded his arms defiantly. ‘Oh no. That devil horse ain’t coming in here.’

‘Can’t leave him outside in the storm, friend,’ said Vasquez easily, ‘I’ll stable him; Jack’s not so bad when you know how he thinks.’ 

‘Horses don’t think,’ grumbled the man, ‘they do what they’re told, leastways ones that are properly broke,’ but he grudgingly opened the gate and pointed to the stalls where there was room for the four of them, Billy’s grey, Goody’s palomino, his Saldano and Jack. 

The rain was starting to hiss down in earnest, the hills echoing with thunder as the storm approached, and the horses were nervous all along the row, eyes rolling as he passed. The lightning turned everything momentarily brilliant, leaving dancing afterimages against the dark interior, and Jack balked at his stall, hooves thudding on the partition; Vasquez cajoled him with slow calm words, ‘Jack, _mijo_ , relax. Just a storm.’ 

The weather was turning ferocious: the wind slammed in up the main street, driving the rain in sheets, and a steady drip drip started up as it soaked through the patched roof. Might as well wait out the rain here, he decided, in the warm half-dark among the straw, and he leant on the door stroking Saldano’s nose as the wind rattled the planks outside and the liveryman stumped stolidly about with a bucket of feed, muttering to the horses. 

\--

The brightest flash yet lights up the room, and Faraday jumps uncontrollably, arm lashing out to knock over his glass. It’s coming for him, he knows it. His feet scrabble at the floor as he tries to get up, to run, but it’s too late, there’s no outrunning this and the roar explodes over him, hot and smoky and choking. 

‘Joshua?’ Goody’s on his feet, one hand on his back. He tries to speak, but he can’t breathe, the thunder’s above him and in his ears, it’s pressing on his chest and he’s gasping for breath. 

‘Give me a hand here, sweetheart,’ says Goodnight to one of the girls, ‘he’s taken a turn. Got a room we can lie him down?’ 

Goodnight gets him on his feet, Faraday lurching against him, and she comes to duck under his other arm, long practised at hauling semi-insensible men about, and they leave the table empty, chairs pushed back, cards scattered and liquor pooled on the surface.

The narrow back room has a bed and a chest with a basin: the window is small and high up. Goodnight lowers Faraday to sit on the yellowed sheets, but when he tries to straighten up Faraday grabs at him, hands closing on his vest. ‘Can’t –’ he stutters out, ‘the noise –’, eyes unseeing in fear, and Goodnight eases down beside him. 

‘Light us a lamp?’ he asks the girl, and she does, then lingers, uncertain of what’s required of her. ‘No need to stay,’ he adds, trying for a charming smile, and she looks at the two of them sitting on the bed, then shrugs and closes the door. Through the wall Goodnight can hear the faint creak of a bed and muffled voices. 

He puts a hand on the back of Faraday’s neck: he’s as tight as a spring, muscles trembling as he waits for the next flash. ‘Easy, Joshua. Breathe. It’s a just a storm.’ Goody knows the words don’t matter. Though thunderstorms have never played on his fears, it’s not hard to see where this has sent Faraday. If he listens Goodnight can hear in the crash and roll of the thunder the rumble of the cannon, the crack of a rifle, the unrelenting pandemonium of war; what can it be for him but the flame of a fuse and the deafening detonation, the screams and the roar as the earth punches upwards? Some experiences you don’t walk away from. 

\--

Billy’s on the ridge above the town, the drowning downpour soaking him through, rain trickling through his hair and over his face, skin chilling in the wind. Lightning fizzes and shocks, the day sucks in its breath and then, _kra-koom!_ a peal of thunder crashes across the plain and Billy throws back his head and yells with it in joy. This is what he loves, the power and immensity of it, the force of the lightning as it arcs across the sky, everything wound so tight, waiting, and then the exploding roar of liberation. He surrenders himself to it, arms outstretched, lets it fill him up, feels himself a tiny part of a mighty world as the storm rages around him.

\--

The room lights up and it sends Faraday spinning. He’s going to die. It’s his decision and he’s made it, and here it comes – the thunder that’s going to tear him apart. His eyes are squeezed shut, but the flash gets behind his eyelids, the thunder’s inside his head. It picks him up and slams him to the ground, over and over again. The light flickers and he’s in the moment of waiting, living out what remains of his life in the grass under a smoky sky, victorious and euphoric and sorry and regretful all at once; then the world blows apart, spinning him into the agony and the dark. 

The storm is right overhead, deafening claps of thunder bursting almost instantly on flashes fierce enough to burn the eye, the town and its buildings exposed as flimsy and toylike before its force. Faraday alternates between clutching Goodnight so hard it hurts, fingers driving into his shoulders, and heaving himself up, trying to tear himself free. He’s gasping for breath, writhing in panic, and Goodnight recognises the unreasoning terror that wants to set him running like a frightened animal, has seen it in Billy when dream trawls deep enough in the well of memory, has lived it night after night of his own. He holds him steady, arms round his chest, speaking firm and low. _Breathe, Joshua. Breathe with me_.

It gets quicker, gives him no time to put himself together before the next flash warns him, _here it comes_. He’s like a rag doll, tossed helplessly from one crest of noise to the next, mind sledgehammered by the inescapable flash and roar, and the only thing he can do is cling to the hands firm on his arms, the voice he can hear saying calmly, _Breathe through it with me. It’s not going to hurt you. I’m here, Joshua_.

 

And gradually, barely perceptibly at first, the storm began to move away. Faraday had his face ground into Goodnight’s shoulder, his muscles rigid and shaking, Goodnight stroking his back steady and regular, but as the pauses between strikes slowly lengthened and the thunderclaps started to fade his shallow breaths became deeper and the painful grip of his fingers on Goodnight’s arms relaxed. The noise receded, rolling off over the hills, leaving only the persistent drumming of the rain on the roof. Goodnight could feel the rise and fall of Faraday’s chest against his own, and his arm around his back seemed suddenly too intimate, shirt damp and warm under his touch. He pulled back, gently disengaging himself, moving his hands to Faraday’s shoulders, and Faraday shuddered back into awareness, leaning forward to cover his face with his hands; his three missing fingers stood out stark. 

His voice was muffled. ‘‘S just thunder, I know that. Little girls are scared of thunder. How can I be ...’ 

Goodnight shifted awkwardly to set a little space between them. ‘Mind’s a law unto itself. Some things – you can’t leave them behind. You carry them with you, and sometimes it’s the smallest thing can call them up.’ 

‘It was -’ He couldn’t say it, panic rising again to strangle him. 

Goodnight reached out to touch his shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault, Joshua. None of us comes through this life unhurt.’

‘I always did. Josh Faraday, always in trouble, always where trouble was happening, and always ducked away and came up roses.’ He turned sideways to face him, and in the lamplight Goodnight saw his face stricken. ‘Always wanted to blow something up.’ His laugh was hysterical. ‘How could I be so dumb?’ 

Goody’s eyes held his. ‘Ain’t many of us come out from our experiences without scars. Billy and I didn’t, and neither did Sam, or Jack.’ 

‘Scars on the inside to match up to the ones outside?’ He scrubbed a hand across his eyes. ‘Shit. How can I live with this? I’m a man.’

He sat, weak and queasy, shame hot on his skin at the spectacle he’d made of himself, and as he looked into Goody’s face the memory came flooding in with the force of a hammer blow: standing behind him, goading him, _Take the shot_ , watching him sweat and twitch; taunting him, _He’s a legend_ , forcing the rifle into his hands, the disappointment at an idol tumbled from his pedestal curdled to contempt. Now he knew what it was like, the unequal struggle to control muscles that are screaming to flee, the thoughts that churn and unravel, the helpless paralysis as the world spins beyond control. _Weak. Yellow. Useless._ The harshness of his judgement sat in his throat like bile, and he struggled to speak around it. ‘I wasn’t - ain’t always been very fair to you, Goody. Took me this to see it. I’m – I’m sorry for that.’ 

The stammered apology took Goodnight by surprise. An edge of antagonism had never entirely faded between them, but he saw that Faraday now stood at the start of the long road he’d walked himself for all these years, mind betraying him into showing weakness against his will, and he’d have to have been a harder-hearted man than he was to take pleasure from recognising it. He nodded. ‘Life’s a hard teacher, son.’ 

‘You know- What can I do? What helps it?’ The confiding urgency in Faraday’s face made him look momentarily younger than he is. 

‘What helps?’ Goodnight considered. ‘Expecting it. A familiar place. Something to concentrate on, something you can hold in your hand, to tie you to the real world – a watch, a matchcase, a coin, even.’ His face stilled. ‘But truthfully? Billy helps.’

 

There was a clump of boot heels along the corridor outside and a quiet knock on the door. ‘Goody? _Guero_?’ 

‘In here,’ said Goody, and Vasquez let himself in, relief in his face at seeing the two of them sitting calmly there. 

‘Was there a fight? I saw the table … the girls said you’d come out here.’ He scanned Faraday keenly. ‘Are you hurt?’ 

Faraday rubbed a hand over his head. ‘Took a turn. Feelin’ better now.’ Green eyes met blue and Goodnight straightened up. 

‘I’m luckier than many, and so are you.’ He squeezed Faraday’s shoulder. ‘No need to rush back.’

As the door closed behind him Vasquez sat down in Goodnight’s place on the bed, his weight bowing the mattress and drawing Faraday towards him. ‘Want to talk about it?’ 

‘No,’ said Faraday, but he leant into him all the same; he felt solid, immovable, smelling of horses and straw. 

‘Want to go back to the game?’ 

‘No.’ 

‘So,’ said Vasquez, sliding backwards to prop his back against the wall. After a minute Faraday slid back too and settled with arm and leg pressed close against him, head tipped back, feeling the rise and fall of his slow breathing. They sat wordlessly in the wan light of the lamp and listened to the rain, drumming patiently down on the earth outside, bouncing off the wooden sidewalk and dripping off the balcony, waiting for it to pass over.


End file.
